Durham Statue

by David Palethorpe

There is a statue
in the square,
standing all alone,
his soul laid bare.

Sad and forlorn,
I long to know his story.
What of his comrades—
where are they now?

Did they fall
in some forgotten field,
or return as heroes
to a land of hope,
a land fit for them?

Or do they weep,
from where they are,
for what might have been—
the freedoms they dreamed,
freedoms with a price:

the price of sacrifice,
the statue’s silent gift.


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